Crimson
by frozenpixie
Summary: She painted her soul crimson with the blood of numerous innocents, and thrilled to the call of evil.


Bellatrix's bedroom was crimson. To the casual observer this may have seemed like a betrayal of her House; the rest of her parents' home was decorated in rich emerald and shining silver, the emblem of Slytherin prominent in each room. But Bellatrix was not, however much it may surprise, a panderer to the pureblood line. She believed implicitly in evil in its purest form, transcending petty barriers such as Houses and races. And so she daubed her walls in the colour of fresh blood.

She never wore black. She felt that the colour which was called black was a hollow mockery of the true shadows of night, and refused to wear it. Instead she wore burgundy, because she knew it suited her, and jade, because it kept her parents happy and won her favour, which was useful. She had no use for bright, primary colours or insipid patterns. All her clothes were simple and elegant, and drew the eyes of everyone in the room.

She did not need make-up. She had natural beauty, a sort of glow from within which illuminated her skin and made her eyes sparkle. It did not come from her sweetness of nature, because she did not have any. It came from her burning ambition and fervent beliefs. It was a slightly mad sparkle, but alluring none the less. The slight heaviness of her face and the firm set of her jaw were softened by her long, glossy hair, and made her look wilful and alive with vitality. She was a force of nature, a beautiful thunderstorm.

She grew her nails into points. It just seemed like the thing to do. It unnerved people slightly, it made her fingers into weapons, and it gave a small indication that she did not follow trends, but that she created them, that she was somebody to be reckoned with. Her habit of tracing them along surfaces, very lightly, was distracting and made people uncomfortable. She was not a woman who liked to put people at their ease. It epitomised her subtle combination of exquisite beauty and exquisite cruelty; sharp and refined.

She attracted men like an open lamp attracts flies, like a spider in the middle of a web. Most knew that they were being lured into a trap, but the experience was so intoxicating that they sacrificed themselves willingly. She was as ferocious as a wolverine, but as sensual as any Persian cat, purring with pleasure one moment and digging her nails into flesh another, smiling viciously as she drew shining drops of blood. She was uninhibited and inventive, and always, always in control. Men lined up to be chewed up and spat out by her, and did not listen to the many warnings and rumours which abounded.

She gave over her life to her beliefs. Such lowly matters as marriage and education meant almost nothing to her, witless means to an overpowering end. She had, for the pragmatic reason that she needed the money and status, lured Rudolphus Lestrange into matrimony, feeding him a tantalising string of promises and stories, twisting him around her little finger, pointed red nail and all. He had followed like an eager puppy, swallowing her fantastic tales of glory and purity, of new societies in which they would rule, together. She kept the promises which suited her, and he never complained. He was a tool to her, but a willing one, and these were always the easiest to work with. A bat of the eyelids, a quirk of the lips, a sway of the hips and he was hers. It was so simple it nauseated her.

She loved a challenge, but with her wit and beauty, few were posed to her which she could not easily overcome. To spiral into the centre of a circle of evil was not hard for her; it was where she belonged, and it attracted her as she attracted it, a magnetic force, inevitable. She relished the opportunities of torture and pain it afforded, the chances to lap up endless drops of agony and grief. Her dark eyes with their wicked sparkle shone anew with each fresh slaughter, the symphony of screams and the fresh scent of blood. Other lesser tools of evil quailed to watch her; she was not a tool, but the force itself. Even the Dark Lord smiled his cold, cruel smile at her eagerness and visceral pleasure as she directed her wand and watched, head cocked in fascination as her victim writhed, insensible. She painted her soul crimson with the blood of numerous innocents, and thrilled to the call of evil.


End file.
